Regional Dialect Poetry

James · Regional Dialect Poetry

Since there's been a lot of poetry on the forum lately, I thought you might like to read this. I'd love to hear anybody brave enough to record themselves trying to read it!!

It was written in the area I live in, Kirton Linsey, at the end of the nineteenth century and was published in "Lincolnshire Dialects" by G. Edward Campion.

Of course, Alfred Lord Tennyson wrote many fantastic poems in Lincolnshire dialect, aswell!

Th’ Lincolnshire Poächer

By Mabel Peacock

“Th’ doctors hev’ given me ower;
Thaäy tell me I mun dee
I’ th’ fower stoane walls o’ a prison,
Wheäre ther’s nowt – not a flower nor a tree ;
I’ th’ fower stoane walls o’ a prison
Wheäre a doaisy’ll niver blaw
An’ nobbud gress i’ th’ flag stoänes
An bits o’ moss’ll grow.

I’m not afeard o’ deein’
But I want to hear egaän
Th’ wind i’ th’ tops o’ th’ fir-trees
An’ smell th’ smell o’ th’ raän
Wheare it cums doon straight fra heaven;
I want to hear th’ call
O’ th’ pywipes i’ th’ marsh land
An’ th’ craws ahind th’ ploo.
But thaay say them days is ower
An’ dun’, fer good an’ all;
I’ve nowt but liggin’ here waatin’
And deein’ left to do.

Th’ parson, he’s been to seä me
Wi’ a strange queer taäle to tell,
O’ a narrer rough road to heaven
An’a straight, smoothe waäy to hell;
Bud, I think, if th’ Loord wos sarten
‘At He wanted us up abuv
He’d keep His roads a bit better –
An’ How can God be luv’
If He made th’ devil an’ all them things
‘At’s creapin’ an’ crawlin’ beloä,
Wheare, parson says, ‘at unchristen’d bairns
An’ mo’derers, an’ such like goä?

I’m not agooin’ to beleave it
O’ Him ‘at made ivrything,
An’ set th’ sun to shine i’ th’ sky
An’ larnt th’ bo’ds to sing;
Bud I’d rather be doon wheare th’ fire
An’ brimstun foriver bo’ns’
An’ just goä roond wi’ a bucket
An’ give fook drinks by to’ns –
Then sit i’ yon stright made heaven,
Wheare saints an’ aängels sing,
An’ niver hear a pheasant craw,
Nor th’ skirr o’ a partridge wing;
Wheare rabbits cum oot on’ plaay,
An’ stamp wi’ ther’ feet o’ a moonleet neet,
Wheare it’s warm o’ th’ coudest day;
An’ th’ otchins ligs hid i’ winter –
Ther’s nowt like this, I doot –
Why, them ‘at gets sent up to heaven
Mun be stolled when a week’s runn’d oot.

It’s a weary while I’ve been liggin’
Wi’ my face to a prison wall,
But I knaw outside th’ black heads cry
An’ it’ spring, on’ th’ cuckoos call:-
I’ not afeard o’ deein’
But I straangely want to see
Th’ sun com up ower Ranthrup
Agaan afore I dee.”

Bugsy

I think I'll wait for the video.

James

It's not that had to read, to be honest

Roly Williams · Re: Regional Dialect Poetry

Mamodman123

James

WTF?

Regional Dialect Poetry

Re: Regional Dialect Poetry